I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to

“I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see.” – John Burroughs

In these tender and wistful words, John Burroughs, the naturalist philosopher of America, reveals the noble ache of a soul deeply in love with life. He does not lament the brevity of existence as one who fears death, but as one who cherishes every heartbeat of being. To find each day too short is not a sign of greed or restlessness, but of fullness—of a spirit so alive that the hours can scarcely contain its wonder. His words are not a complaint; they are a hymn to vitality, to curiosity, to the unending hunger of the human heart for beauty and connection.

Burroughs lived close to nature, far from the noise of cities and the haste of ambition. He found eternity in the turning of leaves, in the flight of birds, in the quiet strength of rivers. To him, every sunrise was a summons to joy, every path a mystery waiting to be walked. His days overflowed with things to think, to read, to see, and to love—and so, time itself became a kind of divine insufficiency. Those who live shallowly find hours long and empty; those who live deeply find them fleeting. The fullness of life, paradoxically, makes life feel too short.

In the spirit of the ancients, his words echo the wisdom of those who knew that the measure of a man is not in the number of his days, but in the depth of his living. The philosopher Seneca once said, “It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste much of it.” Burroughs reminds us of the same truth, but from a gentler place—not from judgment, but from gratitude. He does not scold humanity for its idleness; he blesses it with longing. He teaches that the true sorrow is not that we die, but that the world is too vast, too beautiful, and too filled with wonder for us to ever taste it all.

There is a story told of Leonardo da Vinci, who, near the end of his life, wept as he looked upon one of his unfinished paintings. “So much remains undone,” he murmured. Yet who among mortals had done more than he? The tears were not of regret for failure, but for the infinite richness of life—how even genius cannot drink all the waters of beauty. Like Leonardo, Burroughs stood before the vastness of the world and felt both awe and humility. To find the day too short is the mark of those who truly live.

But there is also a lesson hidden here, like a pearl beneath calm water. Life is short, yes—but not cruelly so. It is short to remind us that every moment is sacred. Each thought we delay, each friend we postpone, each walk we never take—these are small betrayals of the miracle we have been given. Burroughs’s words whisper: Do not wait. The book left unread, the friend not called, the beauty ignored—these are the quiet thieves of joy. The soul that waits for “someday” wakes to find that the sun has already set.

So, my children of the living day, take heed. Fill your hours not with haste, but with presence. Think deeply, for thought is the food of the spirit. Walk often, for the world was made to be touched and breathed. Read wisely, for books are the voices of eternity speaking in the now. And above all, see your friends, not in the cold light of duty, but in the warmth of gratitude—each soul a reflection of the divine.

In the end, the greatest measure of life is not how long it lasts, but how alive it feels. Let each sunrise remind you that time is not a burden but a blessing. Live so that every evening, as you lay your head to rest, you may echo Burroughs’s words with a smile and not with regret: “I still find each day too short…”—not because it was wasted, but because it was filled to overflowing with the richness of being alive.